


Never Gone

by theheartbelieves



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Meet-Cute, Multi, Other, commission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 02:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20220196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartbelieves/pseuds/theheartbelieves
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale attend a Shakespeare festival at The Globe theatre. An unexpected stranger in a brown, striped suit strikes up a conversation with Crowley.





	Never Gone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gingergallifreyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingergallifreyan/gifts).

> Request from @stopmakingnois1 on Twitter, inspired by this happy accident: https://tinyurl.com/y5owkcj9

This wasn’t Crowley’s idea of a good time, but ever since kissing had been added to the routine of his relationship with Aziraphale, he’d found himself unable to deny the angel pretty much anything - and he’d never been good at that to begin with. He looked up at the blue of the sky that was so close to the hue of his husband’s eyes and sighed. 

He liked kissing Aziraphale very much…

So that was how he found himself dressed up in his hose and velvet doublet. The whole ensemble was far more comfortable than he remembered it being back in the day - Aziraphale’s doing, no doubt. He stood out like a sore thumb amongst the humans, dressed in jeans and tees and shorts… but he couldn’t say he didn’t like the lingering looks of admiration it garnered him.

The angel had abandoned him as soon as they’d entered The Globe, waving his hand and saying something about speaking to the actors. Crowley, having little-to-no interest in the festival or discussions of the merits of original pronunciation over modern, was happy to loiter in the middle of the floor. He was content to watch the hustle of volunteers and breathe in the energy around him.

He  _ had _ missed London.

“Love your outfit,” a friendly voice quipped from his right. “Very accurate… and I should know.”

Crowley glanced over, eyebrow raised, to find a slim man with his hands clasped behind his back. No casual wear for this bloke. He was wearing a suit and  _ layers _ ; a long, heavy brown coat. Oddly enough, the sharp ensemble was finished with a pair of dirty plimsolls and a wild shock of brown hair. He was looking around with an air of pleased interest.

“The was the only place that  _ Love’s Labour’s Won _ was ever performed… and just the once, mind you,” the man said quickly with a near manic enthusiasm. “What with all the… witches… Anyway! Like I said, lovely costume!”

Crowley was caught off-guard. _Witches?_ _Love’s Labour’s Won?_ Wasn’t it _Lost?_

“Thank you? Are you one of the…” Crowley rolled a hand on his wrist, searching for the word. “Organisers?”

“Me? Gosh, no. Just a… tourist. Didn’t even know there was a festival on. Lucky me, huh?” He flashed a wide, cheeky grin, then shoved a hand at Crowley. “I’m the Doctor.”

The title was said with such conviction that it took on capitalisation in his head.

“Crowley,” he said skeptically, wary about the naked exuberance. He cautiously took the offered hand and shook. There was something familiar about this guy. “Don’t know if  _ luck _ is the word I’d choose.”

“Not a fan? With  _ that _ get-up?” The Doctor dropped Crowley’s hand and gestured at him, up and down. “You look like you stepped directly out of Shakespeare’s time.”

The Doctor smirked, as if at a secret joke. Crowley tipped his head back and forth in a waffling manner.

“To be honest… I got dragged along. The… get-up… was his doing.”

The smile on the Doctor’s face wavered.

“Ah… yes. I’m usually the one dragging someone along…” He stepped up next to Crowley, both of them watching the growing crowd for a beat. “Don’t usually travel alone.”

Something inside Crowley wanted to comfort the man. As irritating as his previous chipper mood had been, this sudden darkness was uncomfortable. Living with Aziraphale had made him soft, but he wasn’t the  _ nice _ one. Crowley sighed.

“Not so bad, being alone,” he mused, but then caught sight of Aziraphale on his tiptoes, scanning the crowd and looking for him. He felt a smile spread across his face that he immediately mastered. He raised a hand so that Aziraphale could spot him. The angel beamed and it was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

Aziraphale was in his own cream clothing - ruff and everything. It should have looked absurd, but instead Crowley was dragged forcefully back through the centuries. He could remember like it was yesterday, the way Aziraphale had looked, eating grapes with such contentment in this exact spot.

“No… no… it’s not so bad,” the man next to him said, studying him carefully. Crowley looked at him and realised that he’d been grinning back at his angel despite himself. “But it’s a lonely life, isn’t it? All those years alone? It’s good when you find someone special.”

The Doctor turned his eyes to track Aziraphale as he made his way through the now packed audience. The corners of his lips turned up and his eyes softened. Crowley suddenly had to reevaluate his impression of the man. There was something deep and sad and…  _ old _ inside this stranger; older than Crowley himself.

He frowned. That couldn’t possibly be right.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said warmly and with relief as he reached them, fingers immediately sliding into Crowley’s palm. Crowley looked down at Aziraphale - into eyes bluer than the sky above them - and squeezed his hand. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh!” He’d forgotten about the stranger. He turned to include the man in the suit. “This is the Doctor. He’s a  _ big _ Shakespeare fan.”

That larger-than-life smile was back on the Doctor’s face, like it’d never left. He warmly shook Aziraphale’s free hand.

“Aziraphale. Always a delight to meet a fellow devotee of the bard!”

Almost simultaneously, both of their smiles faltered. They looked down at their conjoined hands, then up at each other, then let go, drawing their hands back as if scalded.

Crowley looked back and forth between them, bemused.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale muttered, voice thickened by sadness. He clutched Crowley’s fingers tighter. “I’m so… I’m so sorry.”

The Doctor shook his head, a fragile, forced look of nonchalant optimism fixing in place. His eyes, though, grew hard.

“Oh… well, y’know… it’s nothing.” 

Crowley would have believed him if he didn’t recognise the expression. It was one he’d seen so often on his own face: heartbreak.

He held Aziraphale’s hand all the harder. Aziraphale brushed his fingers down Crowley’s arm lightly. He could sense the angel thinking as he worried the velvet fabric between thumb and forefinger. He was miles away in his head, eyes distant, blanching themselves of their colour.

And then suddenly, he was back, blinking. A soft smile touched the corners of his mouth.

“She’s fine,” Aziraphale whispered, tone filled with awe. “She’s not lost.”

“She’s not?” Worry and hope and doubt furrowed the Doctor’s brow.

Aziraphale turned his deep blue eyes to Crowley, adoration so bare on his face that it made Crowley blush.

“No. Love like that is never lost.” The angel leaned in and kissed Crowley squarely on his lips, taking him by surprise. Crowley made a muffled sound, then cupped the side of his angel’s face, closing his eyes and kissing Aziraphale back in front of everyone present; in front of Heaven and Hell and God, themself.

When they finally parted and remembered the Doctor, neither of them was shocked that the man - or whatever he’d been - was gone.


End file.
